A Plate of Rice

“He’s a wise little boy.”

The words uttered by the wrinkled old man sailed across the entrance of the compartment, staving off the oncoming gush of wind that was blowing in as the train furiously glided through a narrow bend in the tracks.

I was lost in thought, having surrendered to the stifling heat which nevertheless demanded beads of sweat as humiliating evidence of its influence. The old man pointed, and I followed the direction of his finger.

Next to the entrance at the other end of the compartment was a small boy. Given the opportunity of a bath and a visit to the tailor, the kid would have looked charming. Presently looking like any other street urchin, dressed in a dirty, yellowish white banyan that exposed his pencil thin arms, his face was pockmarked with dirt stains that did nothing to diminish the self-assured, arrogant look that he wore. With silky black hair that flopped onto his forehead, he seemed happy as he leaned against the compartment wall.

The Armchair Soldier

It is possible that Satish Gupta did not think of ‘The Armchair Soldier’ that evening, as his Chevrolet Cruze purred up the driveway of the plush hotel. After all, it was a story his communist-hating grandfather had told him several decades earlier. Besides, the lady in the passenger seat had his full attention. 

 

The Hyatt Hotel had over the years swung open its electronic glass doors to countless couples, but none might have matched the beauty that Esha Gupta radiated that evening. Dressed in the royal blue salwar that her aunt had hand-picked for this occasion, the 24 year old nursing graduate knew her husband had been floored. But he was charming enough to not show it too blatantly. 

 

The Silver Atlas

Without crumpling his neatly pressed black suit, Butler Meyers managed to place the last set of champagne glasses on the entrance table and entered the dining hall, where a contemplative Mr. Anthony D’Souza was peering at the mountain side from behind the thick, reinforced life size glass window.

“All ready, sir. The guests are getting dressed now, and will be down for dinner shortly.”

The owner of the freshly burrowed enclave turned around, and flashed a pleasant smile.

“Thank you, Meyers. You have performed your duties this weekend brilliantly.”

The butler smiled. “And you’ve still overpaid me, sir.” He bowed and took his leave.

The prematurely retired scientist turned back his attention to the mountain side, which was presently filled with deeply overcast skies that turned a murkier shade of dark blue by the minute.

The worst hurricane in the history of North America, the CNN anchor had predicted earlier that morning. His British counterpart was instead directing viewers’ attention towards devastating earthquakes in Asia.

10 Treasures of A Happy Childhood

Lately I've been gaining weight like the Library of Congress gains books. Which has, sadly, made me transition from the right to left side of a Loreal Anti Aging Poster.

In a bid to combat the increasingly worrying queries from relatives who are considering turning my future hunt for a bride into a nail biting, almost impossible sounding reality show, I've decided to seek refuge in the past.

Like most of you, I've been blessed by God Almighty with a wonderful childhood. Or, cynically speaking, I was allowed to experience what pure bliss felt like, before having to face the other, murkier end of the spectrum.

So I've decided to list down the ten biggest influences, memories, relics, moments - or in short, treasures - of my childhood. It would serve you well to keep in mind that I was born and brought up in Qatar, as an NRI kid. Just saying, don't expect 'Milking the cow' to be in the list.

So without much further ado, allow me to take you down memory lane. Perhaps you've had similar fond memories as well...

Vote for A Short Story

After countless short stories and articles being posted, it's finally time for an announcement.

I've been shortlisted as a finalist for the 1st Indireads Short Story Contest, held to select the best short stories in 4 genres from South Asia. Now that I've been shortlisted, the best short story will be decided by voting.

This is where your help comes in. I've come to believe that over the years there are about a handful of secret readers of this blog. If that belief is valid, then you must be reading this right now. Well, I need a favor.

Click on the link here, read my story, and if you deem it worthy, vote for it. The winner of this contest will get a book contract, which means I finally have the means to fulfill my life long dream!

Here's to hoping for success. And your cooperation. Thanks!

Chasing Parisa

“Woah!”

I grabbed the phone from Varun’s hands before he could react. Holding it tightly, I stared at the picture, feeling envy growing within me.

“How the hell – so it’s true, huh?” I said, trying to sound casual.

Varun’s face turned a shade red as he tried not to blush.

I looked at the photo again and let out a low whistle. She was beautiful. It was a picture of a girl in her early twenties, who was facing slightly off camera, with her hand in the air as she perhaps tried to stop the photo from being taken. She had fair, creamish complexion, and her thin, red lips curved upwards, causing his cheeks to swell lightly. Combined with the slight reflection of her thin long nose, she looked almost angelic. Serene, I thought.

The 18th Man - Chapter One

The 18th Man is India's first online serialized novel. A chapter will be posted on the Facebook page www.facebook.com/the18thman every Friday and Tuesday at 6 P.M. IST. The following is the first chapter of the novel, which is technically a science fiction thriller.

New York City, 11 : 13 P.M.

Arthur Wallace took a deep breath and opened the door. He sighed in relief. The alarm didn’t go off. Now only if the next three doors were just as easy.

Tiptoeing across the tiled floor of the bank’s back office, Arthur reached another, far more imposing door. He would have to break the lock in under five minutes. He glanced at his watch. Damn it, just over half an hour left.

As beads of sweat trickled down his forehead despite the frigid air conditioning, Arthut Wallace’s mind was racing. The fingers were stubby, he thought angrily. And he was pretty sure the ears weren’t as sharp as they should have been. Thankfully though, the legs seemed to compensate. Yes, he thought, surprisingly fast legs.

I Write, Therefore I Am

I can't remember how it all began. It's like trying to trace the beginning of a dream. The first real recollection I have of the reading part of it all, is rummaging through a drawer in my sister's room till I stumbled upon a copy of one of Enid Blyton's books. I don't remember the name of the book, though the funny British phrases in it are still familiar. After that, it sort of just began cascading. I borrowed my first book from my school library in 5th Grade (an abridged version of Dr. Jekyl & Mr. Hyde). Soon, I was reading books on a regular basis. Abridged versions of The Count of Monte Cristo, novels of Sherlock Holmes, even a few Agatha Christie and R. K. Narayan's Malgudi Days.

But I discovered my skill of writing quite unexpectedly. It was during an after school special class on Public Speaking in which a teacher of mine asked a student to speak about elephants. That just set off a chain of images in my head. Images of an elephant named Jumbo, living with fellow elephants in a jungle in Africa. They had a wonderful system, and encountered travelling elephants who mentioned the terror caused by a man named Veerappan. That was, in essence, my first short story.

Mr. & Mrs. Sampath

Ram Sampath folded the day’s copy of the Times of India, sighing deeply as he did so. The stream of sun light flooding into the living room through the open window illuminated his creased face, revealing the pensiveness he felt. He sighed once again.

Nirbhaya had just died.

It made him feel angry, reading the reports over and over again. The media had done all they could to milk the story, that was for sure. But the fact remained – the girl had died a miserable death at the hands of scoundrels.

Mr. Sampath finally shook the thought from his mind when his wife entered the hall and placed two plates on the dining table. “Breakfast is ready,” she said softly. He watched as she walked back into the kitchen. Dressed in a light, red saree with its end casually tied around her waist, she looked beautiful, even seven years after marriage. With his eyes lingering on her pale, soft cheeks, Ram Sampath secretly thanked God for blessing him with such a beautiful wife.

He had no idea then, but a week later, Mrs. Sampath would be at a police station, weeping as the sympathetic inspector registered a case of attempted rape…

The General's Exercise

Retired General Joginder Singh opened his eyes on March 12th, 2013. He’d closed them almost six years ago. As expected, it set of a chain of events, starting with the nurse in his room dashing to alert the on duty doctor, and culminated in a primly dressed lawyer sitting in front of him, brimming with excitement.

“Good morning General,” Ranvir Kapoor said reverently. It’d been far too long since he’d uttered those words.

The general, wearing a mask that silently pumped oxygen into his body, nodded his head, too tired to utter the reply. He was still weak.

Ranvir Kapoor adjusted the set of papers resting on his lap, and thought about the best way to breach the topic. “General,” he started carefully, “the doctors couldn’t give me a definite answer about whether you’ve regained…full memory?”

Beneath the plastic mask a slight smile formed. The 62 year old General could remember everything vividly.